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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485112">So Long, Aphasia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandmargot/pseuds/themoonandmargot'>themoonandmargot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Smosh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bittersweet, Gen, Reunions, therapeutic release in a fic tbh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:08:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485112</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandmargot/pseuds/themoonandmargot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the biggest split in YouTube history, Ian encounters Anthony in their hometown. Will they finally rekindle their friendship, or will time and distance prove to be their greatest obstacle?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Hecox &amp; Anthony Padilla</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>So Long, Aphasia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Guys, I've literally been writing this since November of 2018..... like WHAT. I've always wanted to write something like this and I'm glad that I finally get to share it. Happy reading :')</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ian can’t remember the last time he’s driven down these Sacramento streets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing is quite the same, with the stop sign on the corner now rusted and bent, and his old, blue car probably sitting in the garage of a friend of a friend. The déjà vu still kicks in, his muscle memory guiding him through old side streets and neighborhoods, and he doesn’t realize where he’s going until the destination is right in front of him—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Smosh house, sitting quietly at the end of the street.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian nearly swerves into a mailbox the moment he recognizes where he is. He steels his hands on the wheel and resolves to keep his eyes on the road; the last thing he needs right now is a trip down memory lane paired with a resurgence of repressed emotions. And he almost drives past, almost gets away free, but then a sign catches his eye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>OPEN HOUSE.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian slows his car to a stop. He sits at the narrow turn into the main street and bows his head. He could either drive away and forget it ever mattered to him, or he could back up, wander around inside the house for a bit, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span> forget it ever mattered to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I could sit here forever and continue to block traffic.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Ian curses and turns to look out his back window. “Just a visit, and nothing else,” he mutters, reversing his car into a space along the sidewalk. It’s a tight spot, between the neighbor’s trash can and an SUV that he should recognize but doesn’t. He rests his eyes in the second after shutting off the engine, then swings open the car door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just a visit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s like stepping through a portal to 2010.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The furniture is gone and nothing feels quite the same way it did when they first bought the house, but just one shoe on the oatmeal-colored carpet floods his brain with memories. Suddenly he’s amidst a camera crew much more intimate than he’s used to, or he’s swiping stray burrito droppings off the dingy Goodwill dining table, or he’s half-asleep on the couch and enduring a weird-ass movie that Anthony swears is the best ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian pauses. He has to remind himself that that’s a cursed name, good ol’ Anthony.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In all honesty, Anthony’s name comes naturally to him, just as it did during the years of his life that Anthony was actually in. Still, it doesn’t prevent the bittersweet memories from sticking, doesn’t stop the feeling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something amiss</span>
  </em>
  <span> rising in his gut at the mere mention of his (former?) best friend. In a way, it makes stepping through the house feel less sacrilegious and more investigative—not like he’s ruining something perfect, but like he’s exploring the ruins of something that once was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Ian decides not to linger in the “wreck” for any longer. His time here is up. It’s been up, he knows this. And it would’ve stayed that way, had he not considered visiting his old bedroom. The hesitation in his footsteps allows just enough time for him to hear the creak of floorboards down the hall, and for the only other person in the house to turn the corner into the living room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ian thinks as he waits. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Could’ve sworn I was the only one here.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He learns soon enough that it’s a rather naive thought.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This is wrong,” Ian jokes, smiling in the sunlight. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one driving.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony laughs, but only because Ian’s right. Between the two of them, Ian has always loved driving, always carpools and offers rides like candy (if not without slyly asking his friends for gas money). Today, though, Anthony sits in the driver seat as they make their way through their hometown for lunch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been surreal, the past hour. What stars had to align for Ian to stake out the Smosh house the same exact time Anthony was?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh shit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ian recalls saying upon seeing the infamously unfamiliar mop of curls that is Anthony’s hair. Then he realized he should probably say more than a stunned curse, so he settled with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, hi!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Anthony laughed back, welcoming Ian with a hug. Strange—best friends like them don’t usually spend so much time away to warrant a hug like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they hugged, because they’re supposed to. Then Anthony suggested catching up over lunch, because they sort of </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. It’s been too long since they’ve really, truly hung out, and while they do feel the underlying pressure of owing the fans an interaction, deep down they both know this is for them. Best friends shouldn’t let their lives play out without keeping each other in them. Ian shouldn’t have to look at the man in the driver’s seat and realize he barely recognizes him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian drinks in the wild hair, the stronger jaw, the tiny, unfamiliar wrinkles. He can’t help but wonder if </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is who Anthony is now, if the changes on the outside reflect all he is on the inside. Strangely, Ian thinks he’d rather it all be a ruse. It gives him hope. For what, who knows. But could there be someone behind it all, someone who really knows how messed up everything is but just tries to forget it? Is that someone really just going to leave things like that?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian doesn’t want to find that answer. Instead, he looks for a different one. “So, what’s got you here in Sacramento?” he asks, glancing at the unfamiliar man beside him. “Why’d I find you rifling through the Smosh house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony grins. “I could be asking you the same thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, it was my mom’s birthday weekend, so I was already in the area. I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>happened upon</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Smosh house,” Ian explains, fake-defensive. “It wasn’t even supposed to be a real visit, anyway. I was actually planning to drive back to LA at one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh shit, really?” Anthony sputters. He peers at the time on his dash then turns to Ian. “If you're running on a tight schedule, we can just hang out some other time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, forget the schedule. I’m totally down to hang right now if you’re not busy,” Ian says. He upturns the corner of his mouth. “It’s been a long time coming, after all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony inhales, shaky and almost comically drawn out, before sighing and shooting Ian a smile. “Yeah, it has been,” he heaves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sit there for a moment, tense in the deathtrap of Anthony’s car, until the horn of the car behind them shakes them out of their silence. Anthony cusses, finally noticing the green light ahead of him, and swerves out of the main road into a complex of retail stores and semi-bougie eateries. Ian chuckles; he really is the better driver between the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soon, they find their way into the parking lot of a Korean cafe. Ian doesn’t recognize the name, and though he’s confused about when this place ever came into existence, he’s ten times more confused about how Anthony learned about it in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re quick to move, replacing the noise of Anthony’s radio with the rattle of seatbelts and key rings. Then they step out of the SUV and stroll to the entrance of the cafe, though not before Ian cracks a joke. “This place got vegan options?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Duh,” Anthony says, grinning. “Why do you think I offered to drive?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Three-quarters into their rice bowls (one marinated beef, the other pan-fried tofu), Ian takes a stab at his bulgogi and another stab at a conversation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, this is sort of a lame question, but what’s up?” he asks, leaning back. “What’s been going on with you lately?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The question practically stuns Anthony, pushing him back in his seat and painting a dreamy smile across his face. “Oh, man. Filming, collaborating, focusing on me, hanging with Mykie…” Anthony nods eagerly, the same way Ian did after his first bite of bibimbap. Like a seal of approval on his own life. “It’s been fantastic, dude,” he continues. “I’m the happiest I’ve been in a while, I can’t lie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian swallows his food and nods along with Anthony. “That’s great, man. I’m glad you’re doing good these days.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not doing too bad yourself, with your fancy, new parent company and all,” Anthony says, leaning forward. “Mythical is probably a million times better than Defy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian snorts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fancy. New.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s something he thought he'd leave in the last decade, but nevertheless they're back to this topic, back to wounds that’ve healed and split open over and over again for the sake of conversation. He supposes it’s only necessary for them to make the obligatory “fuck Defy” comments, them being the two asshats who decided to partner with Defy in the first place. “Oh jeez, Defy isn’t even on the scale,” he scoffs. “Actual trash compared to MythEnt. Like, Rhett and Link are living legends. Smosh is in really good hands, I assure you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s been in good hands for a while now. I mean, after I ran off and you became the official </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daddy Smosh,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Anthony says, popping a block of tofu into his mouth. “You’ve been running this shit way better than any single person ever could’ve, y’know? You deserve more credit than you give yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This, decidedly, breaks Ian.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares shell-shocked at Anthony, chewing and digging his spoon into his rice. He has no idea that these are the words of affirmation that Ian has waited for—craved, even—but hearing them now almost sounds wrong. Maybe because by now Ian </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> learned to give himself credit where credit is due; he’s earned it, anyway. But he fought and earned it out of necessity, out of solitude, out of knowing that no one but himself was going to pat him on the back for doing what was already expected of him… though he had only learned that after realizing Anthony left with no intentions of supporting him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Anthony was any more capable of “running this shit”, but the pat on the back would’ve been nice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian, though, says none of this. Of course he doesn’t. “That’s so nice of you to say. Wow,” he says instead, eyes flittering down to his food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony waves his fork in the air. “I mean, it’s true. It’s crazy, the stuff you’ve been pulling off lately.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian forces a smile upon his lips. “Yeah, I guess. Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They decide to spend the rest of their meal in silence—or at least, as silent it can be with the restaurant playing their questionable music choices over the speakers. In a way, Ian finds it nice, telling himself that the silence comes from being comfortable with each other, that even after all that time away, they can pick up where they left off with nothing but a meal to chat over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, that sounds about right,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ian thinks. And in a final, heaping spoonful, he finishes off his food.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the way back to the Smosh house, Anthony makes a wrong turn. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy shit, Anthony,” Ian blurts, watching the approaching traffic as he grips to the ceiling handle. “Where are you even g–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know where we’re going,” Anthony interrupts, eyes steady on the road.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian squints at Anthony’s smirk and tries not to scoff. “I… no, I don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think harder. You know where we’re going.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian peers back out the window, at the brick walls and the quiet homes blurred in shades of beige. It looks like they’re driving by any other sleepy residential area in Sacramento, and right as Ian opens his mouth to say exactly that, it all clicks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Oh, shit,” he hisses, bolting upright in his seat. “You're taking us to the park, aren't you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jesus. Took you long enough,” Anthony chuckles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian gasps excitedly and claps his hands together. He knows it’s a rather childlike thing to do, and he’s especially aware of how odd the plan sounds out of context. But he knows he and Anthony have always been odd in the eyes of most others, have always been crafting and living in their own strange, personal contexts for years now. He can’t imagine it any other way, and when it comes to the park, he wouldn’t want to. The park, after all, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>their spot.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s where their younger, scrappier selves would sneak off to for an escape from the routine. It’s their “somewhere only we know”.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And actually, it’s not even a real park, but instead a barely-supervised dumpsite featuring its own massive sinkhole, just a single-eyed monster seated beside the clean-cut suburbs of Rosemont. It’s dirty, and disgusting, and a complete disappointment in terms of the environment, but it’s theirs and they cherish it</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truly, sometimes Ian wonders how he and Anthony could love something so vile, though at the same time, he doesn’t question why poop flies scribbled onto science projects delighted them so much back in sixth grade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just another one of those mutual oddities, he supposes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something about the dump is different, changed since Ian and Anthony were there last. Granted, it’s been years—of course it’s changed, after the hundreds of visits from people turning their belongings into not-belongings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thing is, they both </span>
  <em>
    <span>sense</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, too, how a literal dump of talking points surround them yet there’s not a word to spare. They can at least try to attribute the silence to the sheer nostalgia in the air—something about this time and place feels too sacred for speaking. But that fact doesn’t make the stroll any less awkward, and suddenly Ian’s back to wondering why he’s here, why they’re both here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” he finally heaves, “you never answered my question back when in the car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony pauses, eyes lingering on what looks like a battered VCR on the ground, then frowns at Ian. “You’re gonna have to remind me what you said because I don’t remember shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude.” Ian throws his hands out to his sides and laughs. “What’re you doing in Sacramento?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, right,” Anthony giggles, nodding. Then he stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and shrugs. “I… I just wanted to visit one last time. I mean, I’ll be back eventually, but… just not for a while.” He smiles, almost to soften the blow. “Mykie and I are moving to New York next month.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian raises his eyebrows. “New York?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s crazy,” Anthony breathes with a shake of his head. “We’ve been talking, and we discovered that we’ve both wanted a change of pace for a while now. So we did some searching and we just happened to find a nice, little place in the city. We start packing right when I get back to L.A.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>wow.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aaaand, don’t tell anyone—not that you would, but—I’m planning to propose soon.” Anthony raises his hands as Ian laughs in amazement. “Don’t ask me how I’m gonna do it, I don’t know yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian’s legitimately thrilled to hear the news. He even almost forgets what he was brooding about earlier, but somehow that doesn’t translate tremendously well when he opens his mouth. “Jesus, Anthony, how am I only learning about this now?” he cries, smile wide.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony beams back, though his smile falters. “Uh…” Anxiously, he rakes his knuckles across the busted TV beside him and mumbles a half-excuse, half-apology. “I meant to call you a while back with the news, it’s just that I’ve been sorta busy, um…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Realization washes over Ian, and he shakes his head, striving to keep the conversation lighthearted. “Hey, it’s fine, I get it,” he says with a gracious shrug of his shoulders. “I’m happy for you. And I’m glad you told me all this before you moved thousands of miles across the nation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a second for Anthony to visibly ease, but eventually he chuckles. It’s never been too difficult for Ian to make him laugh, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At the center of the dump, the earth sinks to nothing. Small items cling to the dirt walls, slicing the brown with specks of rainbow. The bottom of the sinkhole, though, stays dark, almost black. Neither Ian and Anthony know what sits trapped beneath the sludge, yet they loom over it, waiting as though something is bound to bubble to the surface.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not as deep as before,” Anthony says after a while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian sighs. It’s true, but he hesitates to agree. He shrugs and shoves his hands in his jacket. “Nah, but I mean… it’s had quite a few years of people filling it up with garbage.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony looks down the sinkhole, practically studies each of the pieces half-hidden in the muck. If Ian didn’t know any better, he’d think Anthony might just jump in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s… not as cool as it was when we were kids, huh?” Anthony murmurs, and Ian feels his throat go dry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well.” Searching, Anthony stares down, down, forever down into the abyss. Ian kicks a hard clump of dirt under his shoe and pulls his eyes in the opposite direction, upwards. “I think it’s about to rain, so I guess we can–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something’s not okay between us, isn’t that right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony’s voice is soft, scared. Ian swallows when Anthony finally looks up from the ground. His brown eyes are shining, begging for something that Ian can’t pinpoint—answers, maybe, or acknowledgment. The best friend in him wants to give Anthony that, wants to give him everything. But the best friend in him who needed it first but never got it… that part of him wants nothing to do with this conversation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning on his heel, Ian walks away and pretends he didn’t hear anything. “We should head back to the Smosh house,” he gruffs. Anthony follows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ian,” he sighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The old house, I mean. My car is there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know your car is there. Didn’t you say you weren’t in a rush to drive back to L.A.?” Ian plows on, not bothering to look back. He’s relieved once he realizes Anthony doesn’t plan to push any further, only follows him while letting the silence fester.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the rain comes—a drizzle at first, growing stronger with each passing moment. Ian doesn’t exactly mind getting caught in the rain, yet he lets this be the motivator behind his quickened pace. Anthony remains wordless, walking faster behind Ian, but it’s when the skies are at a steady downpour that he speaks up again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we talk?” he says, half-lost in the wash.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Ian doesn’t mean to, but he snorts at the request. </span><em><span>Talking.</span></em><span> Talking was for the past. Talking was for when one of them decided to marry their girlfriend then move to the opposite end of the country. Talking was for Christmastime, when one of them got their first pair of high-tops from the family that the other left behind. </span><em><span>Talking was for two friends who hated the position they were in and hated vulnerability and hated so much that it swallowed their friendship whole, like old fridges down the darkest fucking sinkhole, and –</span></em><span> Ian trudges forward.</span> <span>Talking was long overdue.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony doesn’t immediately unlock the doors when they reach the car. Ian tugs at the handle, grunting when the passenger door doesn’t open, then looks back up at Anthony opposite of him. “Dude.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ian,” Anthony pleads. He doesn’t seem to notice that they’re drenched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian shivers, and he might try to convince himself that he’s just cold from the rain, but really it’s the desperation in Anthony’s voice that shakes him to the core. He pulls his mind back to his surroundings, though, back to discomfort and anger and other things weaving through the clouds. “I’m not in the mood for this and I just wanna get out of the rain. Please unlock the door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re never in the mood for anything,” Anthony spits, and Ian nearly throws his arms up in defeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking – </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> A beat passes. Ian glares at Anthony and Anthony glares back, until the doors flicker aloud, finally unlocked. Ian pulls the handle but pauses to climb inside, not wanting to get the car seats wet or track mud on the floor. Then he remembers it’s Anthony’s car in front of him, and he hops right in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The jingle of keys as Anthony starts up the engine is deafening yet more welcome than words. Anthony’s mad, too, now, and Ian hates it, hates sitting in this deathtrap of a car and feeling guilty for things for which he shouldn’t have to feel guilty. Instead, he tries to zone it all out and focuses on the dirt path out the dump. But a moment passes, and another, and Ian realizes they’ve been sitting in the same spot of the dump for a minute now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I–” Anthony brushes his fingers along his keys, checks the pedals at his feet as if he can discover something amidst the mechanisms. “I don’t – it’s not–” Anthony throws himself into his seat and groans. He speaks from the chest yet his words still tremble. “I think we’re stuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ian flings open the door beside him and steps back out into the rain. A glance at the back of the SUV proves Anthony’s suspicions correct. They’re surrounded by mud, earth slick against the tires. Ian hears a car door slam, and quickly after, Anthony joins him at the back of the car and curses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without asking, Ian strides to the driver’s door and jumps in. He knows the rules when it comes to driving out of mud: take it slow, give the tires some space to move. He turns the steering wheel left and right, then puts the slightest hint of pressure on the gas, but soon before anything, Anthony yells at him to stop. Ian turns, and at his side is Anthony, hair dripping. “It – I think the tires are only sinking deeper. They’re halfway through the mud. I don’t think…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, are you kidding me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony scoffs. “No…?” He shakes his head. “Okay, whatever, I’ll just call for a tow truck or something…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian leans his head back against the seat as Anthony pulls out his phone and taps along the screen. Earlier today, Ian wasn’t immediately thrilled to find Anthony back in their hometown, but all the hours afterward he thought it might’ve been a blessing in disguise. Instead, he’s trapped, trapped again between Anthony and a hard place, where he’s been pushing and shoving and dying to escape, and he decides he’s tired of it all. He feels his spirit sinking, down damp dirt and forgotten items to the loneliest pit of the planet. His eyelids drop close when the sadness turns to hatred and manifests itself in his voice, quiet yet sharp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should’ve never fucking trusted you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony looks up from his phone, up at the man before him. He doesn’t recognize him. He hasn’t for a long time. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he spits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Opening his eyes, Ian faces Anthony. They’re both shocked to see the pain in each other’s features, but rather they latch onto the wrath between them. Ian swallows. “I don’t know why I was ever friends with someone who couldn’t give two shits about me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the distance, thunder cracks through the sky. Anthony glares, jaw tightening. Fear makes him hesitate, but insecurity ultimately drives him. “Get out of my car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian wastes no time in jumping out, nearly stepping on Anthony’s toes before turning and stomping away. Anthony raises his arms in the air. “Where are you going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rain bouncing off of him, Ian whips around. “You told me to get out of your car!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’re gonna </span>
  <em>
    <span>walk</span>
  </em>
  <span> back to yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian groans and turns away from his original path. Anthony’s eyes follow him across the dump, through the mud and rain, to a shack decomposing some seventy feet away from the car. The roof is rusted and practically melting into the walls, but Ian decides it serves as a good-enough shelter from the elements, at least until his Uber shows up. He has to put his plan on hold, though, once he looks up from his phone to see Anthony walking his way. He frowns. “What do you want, Anthony?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want us to talk. That’s all I want to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian groans. “I don’t know what there is to talk about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude, come on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> come on!” Ian bellows. “I’ve been waiting years for you to talk to me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Years.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Just for you to acknowledge me or Smosh or any of us. And it’s only </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you want to talk about shit that you ignored when I needed you to care?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony’s face twists. “What? I’ve always cared about Smosh. I’ve always cared about you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You–!” It’s the angriest Ian’s ever sounded in a long time, the angriest he’s ever let himself get. But the anger catches in his throat and transforms into something worse. “You,” he rasps, eyes wide and watery. “You left, and you left me without a support system, and you left me with a company that you knew was bringing us down, and you left me with the hardest fucking decisions I’ve ever made in my life, and you left me to do it completely alone, all by myself. I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And you’re trying to tell me you did all that because you cared?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damnit, I…” Anthony runs a hand through his soaked hair and slumps. “I know I left you. I feel shitty about it every single day. And if it’s any consolation, I was terrified, too.” Anthony leans forward. “But it’s not like I ever stopped caring! And I never wanted to make you feel like you weren’t allowed to tell me that, like you weren’t allowed to come to me and talk it out. I promise that was never my intention.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How could…?” Ian shakes his head, disgusted. “How could it have not felt that way? How was there any way for me to not feel like I was just given all this responsibility without any way out? How could I listen to my best friend tell me how fucking miserable he was and how he wanted out without feeling like I had no say in the matter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanted you to leave with me,” Anthony says. “But the Smo–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And then leave the entire Smosh fam behind? Leave behind our friends and all the people who depended on us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> we couldn’t leave behind the Smosh fam!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you left me behind instead?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ian,” Anthony cries, a desperate exhaustion to his voice. “Don’t you think… that I would’ve stayed if every day I walked into the office didn’t feel like a fucking death sentence? Don’t you think I would’ve stayed if I had a choice?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a choice,” Ian huffs, crossing his arms tight against himself. The rainwater in his sleeves leaches to his shirt, gathers cold around his chest. But he’s kept warm by the fire inside, the one fueled by resentment. It reminds him he’s heard all these excuses before, all these distortions of truth. Ian’s spent the better part of the last year learning to accept the past and let go of grudges. But he’s tired, has been for a long time—and he doesn’t have it in him anymore to pretend he’s above feeling anger…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until the rain pounds stronger against the roof and Anthony’s voice rises just loud enough for Ian to hear him, and just icy enough for him to listen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t change,” Anthony mutters. “You hate change. That wasn’t always the case, but you learned to hate it and I don’t know why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you knew what was happening. You’re observative as shit. You knew before me that I, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>we,</span>
  </em>
  <span> were unhappy with our channel. And when I finally caught on, I wanted to tell you. I wanted to talk it out. I was so panicked about losing that motivation and passion and I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t going crazy because of it.” Anthony dips his head, eyes trained on his fidgeting hands. “All you did was ignore it. Shut it out. Shut me out. It’s a defense mechanism and you were scared, I get it. But you can’t tell me that I wasn’t trying. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> trying. And I couldn’t understand why I had to try so hard for my best friend to understand that I was scared, too, just for different reasons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So I left the channel. And I think for the first time in years, I was happy. But I always asked myself, deep down, if I ever regretted the decision. Every single day, I wondered if I should just… go back and relive the dream, beside you. But I knew that wasn’t possible. And I felt guilty for even considering it. Because I knew you were just trying to fix the shit that I left behind. But also because I knew that’d require more of you than I’d ever ask when we </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Face contorted in pain, Ian shivers and uncrosses his arms. “Anthony…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What you went through was shitty and horrible. I don’t deny that, at all, and I never wanted that for you. So I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry that I made dumb jokes, and I said dumb shit, and I never looked back when all you needed was for someone, anyone to look back. I forgot how to be a best friend, and I’m sorry. But… I fucking needed you, too. I needed you to tell me that there was a reason to stay. I needed you to show me that I wouldn’t be spending the rest of my life doing something that would kill me, with someone who couldn’t relate. I feel sick looking back on everything now and thinking that if I had just known how you felt, then I probably would have never left. But I can’t change that. I can’t change what happened to us. I-I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> what happened to us. And god, I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wish…”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Anthony’s voice creaks as his face crumples. “I…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air pulses between them, grey and suffocating. For the first time since the announcement video, Anthony cries in front of Ian. And for the first time in all the years they’ve known each other, Ian cries, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Anthony repeats, sobbing, and Ian leans forward to clap his arms around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop saying sorry,” Ian gruffs, chuckling through the tears. “I’m the one who’s supposed to say sorry now. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a complete breaking point. There’s snot and sniffles and the ugliest of crying, but for once it feels like something gone right. They’re not the same people they were when they broke the news, when they embraced on camera, all that time ago. Nevertheless, they hold onto each other, burrowing in the mere familiarity between them, and cherishing it. They don’t let go for a while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rain lets up once the skin beneath their eyes sit tacky and spent. It’s been dark nearly all day, but now the clouds wisp into nothing, and in their place, dusk. Somehow, they’re both okay, as they walk back out into the quiet open. Anthony’s car still waits for them. And like magic, it skids out the mud and forever away from the deepest, darkest pit known to Sacramento.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Smosh house looks sad with the lights out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything about them is sad, really. Ian and Anthony both sense the melancholy between them, in the presence of the house they once called home. The air around them is lighter, at least, but certain words still sit heavy in their hearts. Maybe the gloom will lift with time. Or maybe the loss of never-quite-the-same will prevail. Either way, in the last minutes of the day, they try to heal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I ask you something?” Anthony asks. Wistfully, he studies the Smosh house before turning around to the stars, to the wide, open space that the driveway reveals. The silence grants him permission to speak as he looks to Ian. “Do you want to be the best man at my wedding?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian chuckles, almost bitterly, as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I mean, if I’m not, the Internet will–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what the Internet thinks. I want to know what you think.” Then, Anthony tilts his head down, making sure to meet Ian’s eyes. The blue kills him, even in this light. “For once.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian bristles, then looks ahead to reflect. Slowly but surely, the answer arrives. “I think your best man should be whoever you want them to be. I… just don’t think that person is me.” He presses his lips together in an accepting smile. “I don’t think either of us think that person is me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony smiles back, just as understanding, just as bittersweet. Then he nods, glancing at his feet before breaking into a real grin. “Alright, fair enough. I mean, your ass is getting an invite regardless.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Ian says. “I could really use a New York getaway vacation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthony raises a brow. “You know weddings can take years to plan, right? And that I still have to propose?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian shrugs. “So I’ll need it even more by then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They chuckle, kicking the stray pebbles on the driveway and looking back to the night sky, where in the quiet suburbs of Rosemont, the stars shine bright. Ian’s never been a man of fate and fairy tales, but he bets Anthony thinks that the galactic bodies overhead aligned just so they could be here, right now, the same way they aligned in middle school when they met.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, Ian doesn’t believe that fate is what brought them together. But maybe nonbelieving is his way of letting them break apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a good friend, Ian,” Anthony says, an air of finality in his voice. “To me and to the Smosh fam.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian’s heart clenches. He’s always tried to be a good friend and a good person, but he’s never truly sure if he’s good </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough,</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he’s loved </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He means it when he thanks Anthony. Then he pauses a bit, trips over the dark space cluttered in his heart, before pushing out the words in his chest along with any last grudges.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a good friend, too,” he says. Ian fears Anthony can hear the surprise in his voice, because for the first time in a long time – “I mean it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Relieved, Anthony smiles and pulls Ian into a hug. It’s no back-pat cop-out, but instead a true, honest embrace. And for reasons they both silently understand, it hurts when Anthony asks, “I’ll see you later?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian closes his eyes and revels in this familiar warmth, just for a second. Just before he lies. “Yeah, I’ll see you,” he murmurs, half-muffled in Anthony’s jacket. “Good luck with the move.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They step away, eyes wet beneath the moonlight. They exchange a few more goodbyes before retreating to their respective cars, where they’re safe from the California nightchill. First to turn out of the driveway is Anthony, whose bed for tonight, unlike Ian’s, is at an Airbnb ten minutes away; he makes sure to wave at his friend through his window as a final good-travels’ wish. Ian follows Anthony’s car through the streets, right to the end of the inner neighborhood road. Then Anthony’s car pulls away, red lights blinding Ian before turning, then fading, then disappearing completely. Ian drives out afterwards, in the opposite direction, and wonders if Anthony is watching his tail lights slip from view, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s midnight when Ian turns into the highway back to Los Angeles. The road is dark, the car is quiet, and the time on his dashboard has six more hours until it can get some shut-eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Ian is alone. And for once, he thinks he’s never felt freer.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Guess what? I've got an "ian &amp; anthony" Spotify playlist, because of course I do. Check it out <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66zTRQPJPtQjckT3aqbsBV?si=QX8AkvQUSVWCv8DB-tUqLg">here</a>, and also check out my Tumblr @shaymiens if you'd like :&gt; Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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